Relative Pitch
by printandpolish
Summary: A little coda to Perfect Pitch. One shot.


_This came to me on the treadmill at the gym. Go figure. "Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters" was on the MP3 player; maybe that's why. Or maybe it was Charmed Mummy telling me she missed beta-ing for me. (Thanks, CM, for reading this!) _

_In any case, this is a little coda to "Perfect Pitch." It can stand alone, but it is an AU, so if you're not familiar with "Perfect Pitch" it probably won't make much sense. _

* * *

**Relative Pitch  
November 2008**

Don glanced up as the ping of his e-mail program told him a new message had arrived. He smiled as he saw his sister's address and stretched, rubbing the back of his neck. He'd been at the reports for three hours and welcomed the distraction.

Lydia and Daniel had married the previous June. She had worn her mother's dress and it had turned out just as Alan had predicted when Margaret was dying – Lydia wasn't quite sure she liked it, but she wore it without hesitation, because it was a way to have her mother there.

Sharon had been the maid of honor and Daniel, lacking brothers, asked Don to be the best man. At the reception, Don had asked Sharon to dance, and they'd been together ever since. The women joked that they saw each other more now, since Don and the new Mr. and Mrs. Michaels lived on either side of a duplex, than they had when they were roommates in Santa Monica.

Daniel and Lydia were now on a belated honeymoon in Europe. They'd left with not much more than a couple of backpacks and some travelers' checks and Don was reluctant to admit he was more than a little jealous.

He tried to remember where they would be by now. Germany? Belgium?

"I wonder if she found Cousin Bernard," Don mused, almost to himself. He had been trying to help Margaret's cousin, Anna, track down what had happened to her family after she fled Nazi Germany; Lydia had promised to check out one of his leads.

He clicked to open the message:

_To: eppesd(at)fbi-dot-gov  
From: odat2005(at)gmail-dot-com  
Subj: Check out this photo  
Date: 15 November 08_

_Hey Donny,_

_Hope this makes it past the super-secret government filter. Daniel and I found this in Brussels and we wanted to share it with you._

_See you next week!_

_xo,  
Lyddie_

He opened the attachment and his brow furrowed. He'd been expecting a fountain or a painting or … well, something … but the photograph she'd sent was of a narrow plastic object that might have been a ballpoint pen or a thermometer case. There were two lines in a rectangular window, but other than that, Don could see no other markings.

"Hey." Megan set down a file on the corner of Don's desk. "These just need your initials and …" Her voice trailed off as her eyes glanced at the screen. "Wow. Um … is that Sharon's?"

"Sharon's? No, Lydia sent it."

Megan gave a little gasp and clapped her hand to her mouth. Her new engagement ring sparkled under the florescent lights and she looked much more girlie than Don usually saw her. "Really? Oh, that's wonderful!"

Don stared at her, completely perplexed.

Megan began to laugh. "You have no idea what you're looking at, do you?" She leaned over and picked up a pencil. "It's a pregnancy test. That --" she tapped the point against the top line "— means it's positive."

A slow grin was spreading over Don's face. "Then that means …" He leaned back in his chair. "Well. That's all right."

He was lost in thought for so long that Megan tossed the pencil back on his desk and wandered away. His grin grew wider as he hit reply and typed:

_Tell your husband we'll need to fence in the yard. And I promise I'll finally fix the cellar steps._

_Fly safe -- _

_Love,  
Uncle Don_

* * *

Charlie's phone vibrated and he glanced down before turning back to Amita. "The point I'm trying to make," he said, as if he hadn't been interrupted, "is that I'm perfectly willing to have a traditional ceremony in Chennai if you'd like to."

"Charlie, I was born here, remember? I'm a California girl." Two weeks engaged and they were already arguing over wedding plans. Larry and Charlie had proposed the same week – neither Megan nor Amita believed it was coincidence. "I like the idea of something small and simple on the beach – just parents, your brother and sister, and close friends."

"I could go back over the last several months and figure out the date least likely to rain," Charlie said thoughtfully.

Amita leaned over and kissed him. "We really don't have to wait," she said. "There's not so much to plan."

"No white dress and pastel-colored bridesmaids?"

"No," she said firmly. "Well, maybe the white dress. But I refuse to spend as much on that as I did on my car."

Charlie snorted.

"Seriously. Women trample one another at bridal sales." She ticked off items on her fingers. "A nice dress, you already own a suit, a license, a justice of the peace, a restaurant reservation for after, and that's it."

"I think I'd like a rabbi," Charlie said quietly. "Rabbi Malka, down at Temple Beth Am, presided over my mother's funeral service. He was very helpful to Dad. I like him."

"Perfect," Amita said decisively. "Call him and find out what his schedule looks like, and we'll pick some night in the next month or so. We'll get married at sunset on the beach."

"What's your rush?" he teased.

"I'm trading up," she answered. "Eppes is a hell of a lot easier to spell for people than Ramanujan."

"You … you want to take my name?" Charlie stammered. "I mean, I just assumed …"

"Oh, I'll still be Dr. Ramanujan professionally, but at home? I'll just be Mrs. Eppes."

Charlie laughed and leaned in to kiss her when his phone beeped, indicating a message. He ignored it.

"Are you going to check that?"

"I will. It's just Lyddie."

"Just Lyddie," Amita repeated skeptically. "Isn't she in Paris or something?" She pulled gently away. "Check it, be sure everything's OK."

Charlie pulled his cell off his belt and frowned at the text message.

_Math quiz: 1+1+40 3 in 0809_

"'In' is not really a mathematical term," Charlie mused, squinting at the tiny screen. "Is it an abbreviation? Does she mean integer or infinitesimal or maybe … do you see a period there?"

"Why would Lydia be asking you about math from half a world away?"

Charlie sighed. "This is like the name of her first album, remember? _Federal Numbers Building Justice. _It went right over my head. I thought it was cryptic but then once Don pointed it out to me, I thought it was cleverly elegant …"

He stopped talking abruptly. Amita waited patiently, recognizing that her fiancé was watching a solution come together in a dimension most of the world didn't see.

"God," he whispered, a delighted smile coming to his face. "My God."

"What?"

"Lydia and Daniel are having a baby."

"What?" Amita took the cell phone, trying to see what he did.

"One and one – Lyddie and Daniel, and 40 weeks of pregnancy, equals a family of three next August." Charlie shook his head admiringly. "That's pretty good. That took some thought."

"You know what this means?" Amita asked.

"What's that?"

She snuggled next to him. "It means I get to be Auntie Amita."

* * *

Alan pulled the mail out of the box on the house and glanced through it absently. Phone bill, grocery flyer, something from CalSci for Charlie, and an envelope from Belgium.

Alan smiled. His daughter and son-in-law had been gone for almost two weeks and thus far had sent four postcards. It was a nice change from the days postcards of ten words or less were the only way he heard from Lydia – these had long messages written in small print, so as to fit more in. The last one had been filled with writing so tiny Alan had had to ask Millie to help him decipher it.

Alan had been spending more time with Millie and was staying at her condo a few nights a week. They were talking about making a more permanent arrangement once Charlie and Amita married. The younger couple had made it clear to Alan that he was welcome to stay in the old Craftsman home with them, but Alan pictured living in his first married home with Margaret and her father and refused.

He slit open the envelope. Inside was a card. The front, in hand done calligraphy, said, "Groeten aan mijn grootvader." Inside, in Lydia's writing, it read: _I can't wait to meet you next August. _

Alan furrowed his brow. _Why would she have someone make me a card I can't read? _He crossed the room to power up his laptop. _What language do they speak in Belgium? _he wondered. _OK, there's a map, she sent this from Brussels, so Dutch … where's a translator … _

A moment later he gasped aloud, tears standing in his eyes. "Groeten aan mijn grootvader."_ Greetings to my grandfather_.

* * *

Sharon was in Don's kitchen chopping celery when he came in the front door. Though they told people they were not living together, she'd had a key for months and, to Don's delight, had no intention of renewing the lease on her small apartment in January.

"Hey," he said, bending to kiss her.

"Hey." Sharon paused, then said, "Have you heard from Lydia lately?"

Her tone was so purposefully casual that Don knew she knew. "Indeed I did, Aunt Sharon."

He expected Sharon to laugh but instead, she looked at him seriously. "Aunt Sharon because I'm Lydia's friend, or … for some other reason?"

One of the things Don loved about Sharon was her directness. On their third date, she'd kissed him goodnight and said, "Listen, we're both over 35, and I know I want to get married and have a family someday, and I really like you, so if that's not something you want, you have to tell me now." By the time she was done talking, Don was head over heels.

Now he smiled gently at her and took her hands in his. "I'll say this -- I would never let you move in here without making a more serious commitment," he answered earnestly. "And that's all I'm going to say, so don't pry and don't snoop."

"Don't propose on Christmas," Sharon replied, a delighted smile spreading over her face. "Everyone does that."

"I'm sure I can be a little more creative than that."

"Well, I should hope so." Sharon resumed cutting, tossing the salad pieces into a bowl. "I ordered something for them today. I had to have it custom made, but it's so worth it. Wait 'til you see."

Don picked up a knife to help. Sharon handed him a radish. "For Daniel and Lydia?"

"For the baby." She grinned. "It's a Stockton Rangers onesie. And you know what I had them put on the back of it?"

"Eppes, number 27?" he guessed.

"No, silly. The baby won't be an Eppes." Sharon finished the celery and went on to the lettuce. "Michaels – and the pi symbol."

Don burst out laughing. "I love you."

"I love you, too. We're blessed, you know?"

"I know."

Sometimes Don felt like he had nearly lost his family and every phone call or dinner was a precious gift. They had come so close to being apart forever. Margaret had died, and Alan had thus lost the love of his life. Lydia had been very ill. Don had been estranged in New Mexico and Charlie had been lost in equations as surely as if he'd been lost on a mountain.

But somehow, in the middle of all that, they'd all found each other again, and loved each other well enough to draw others into the circle.

"Hey." Don reached over Sharon to still her hands. "Leave that. Throw it in the fridge and let's go out. I want to take you to dinner and go shopping."

"Shopping? You hate shopping. Shopping for what?"

Don kissed Sharon deeply, making her weak in the knees. "Diamonds," he whispered.

**End**


End file.
